


we could share the kingdom

by carrythesky



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Curt plays matchmaker and enjoys it a little too much, Diners, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14996063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: Kastle Fic/Art Exchange piece inspired by this prompt: Karen publishes her front page investigation and receives a gift from Frank.





	we could share the kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [I_am_a_color_13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_a_color_13/gifts).



> Kastle Fic/Art Exchange piece inspired by this prompt: Karen publishes her front page investigation and receives a gift from Frank.

There’s a diner just around the corner from Pete Castiglione’s new apartment. He grabs breakfast there, because it’s something to do, something routine. Curtis’s bullshit, but he does it. He orders coffee and toast and flips through the Bulletin’s local crime section while he waits. Her name crops up occasionally beneath a headline — big stories, these days. Big fish she’s going after. The thought makes his fingers twitch.

 

Curt notices.

 

“For a smart guy,” he says one morning, “you’re pretty stupid, Frank.”

 

Frank swigs his coffee, more to hide face than anything. His cheeks are hot, beneath Pete’s full-grown beard, and he swallows a laugh, because — really, he’s _that_ asshole?

 

“So you haven’t called her,” Curt says. He’s smiling, the son of a bitch, like he knows exactly what Frank’s thinking.

 

“Jesus,” Frank breathes, “we in high school again?”

 

“I don’t know, man, you tell me. Never took you for a chickenshit, but there’s a first time for everything —”

 

Frank feels his jaw working, feels Curtis’s eyes on him, waiting. Just waiting him out. Bastard’s too damn good at his job. “What — what d’you want me to say, Curt? She’s got her own life, yeah? Doesn’t need to be a part of — whatever the hell this is.”

 

“Nah,” Curt says, shaking his head, “nah, Frank, that’s bullshit, and we both know it. This isn’t about Karen. It’s about you.”

 

Frank makes a noise low in his throat, sinks his head into his hands to give his fingers something to do. Lewis, the hotel — most of it’s still a blur, but he remembers Karen, he remembers —

 

— blood, on her face, wet and warm when he’d pressed his forehead to hers.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” he mutters.

 

“Hey,” Curt says, “wherever you are, Frank, wherever it is, it’s not here. It’s not now. That’s done, right? Can’t change it, it’s done.”

 

“It — doesn’t feel done, Curt. I know it is, right, I know that, but —” Frank sucks a breath down, so fast he almost chokes on it. “Can’t look back, can’t go forward. Karen, she — she deserves more.”

 

Curt looks at him, hard. “So do you, Frank.”

 

Frank is careful, careful not to smile. “You goin’ for sainthood or somethin’?”

 

"One of us has to.” Curt shrugs. “But — you’re a grown-ass adult, you can make your own decisions. Just think about it, alright?”

 

Frank looks down at Karen’s article, drags a thumb across her name. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I will.”

 

.

 

.

 

He thinks about it.

 

.

 

.

 

(The thing is — the thing about Frank is that he lives for the fight, and anything less scares the shit out of him. _Work to do_ , his blood sings, hot beneath his skin. His hands itch for a trigger. _Work to do, get to it_.

 

He lives for the fight, even after it’s done. Even then.)

 

.

 

.

 

Things probably would’ve gone on like that for awhile — him being a chickenshit, _screw you_ , Curt — except when he picks up the paper a week later, her name is on the front page.

 

 ** _DAREDEVIL RETURNS TO HELL’S KITCHEN_** , the headline reads.

 

Frank takes a breath, and counts backwards slowly from ten.

 

.

 

.

 

The first thing Karen does when she opens her door is laugh.

 

“Really, Frank?” she says, and oh _hell_ , this was a terrible fuckin’ idea. She looks — happy to see him, and that’s the worst part, he thinks. Karen Page, all heart.

 

Her eyes dart to the box of .380 rounds in his hand. “Those for me?”

 

“Yeah,” he says. He’s grinning, now, can’t help himself. “Yeah, I figured — you could test ‘em out on Red, next time you see him. That suit ain’t bulletproof. Ask me how I know.”

 

Karen laughs harder, at that, and when she tilts her head back the light catches in it, tangles it in strips of shadow. Not that he notices.

 

“I missed you, Frank,” she says.

 

He’s not sure what to do with that, not sure he likes the way her words twist something up in his gut, like he’s being wrung dry from the inside out. “Yeah, uh —” he sputters, shifting his weight — “it’s — good to see you.”

 

Karen swings the door wider. “You want to come in?”

 

.

 

.

 

Her place is the same. He’s not sure why he expected different — maybe because Madani and David and Rawlins and Billy, Bill _fuckin’_ Russo, all that shit feels like a lifetime ago. Everything’s changed, and nothing has.

 

Karen offers him a beer and sinks onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her. Frank hesitates a beat.

 

“I don’t bite,” she offers, eyes shining.

 

“Mm.” He stays where he is. “Thought you’d be more pissed than you are, to be honest.”

 

He thinks he sees a twinge of disappointment, but then she’s tipping her drink back and her face is neutral again. “I was,” she says. “I was furious, at first. I mean — I thought he was dead, Frank. I went to his funeral. It felt good, being angry. I wanted it. But then, I don’t know, it kind of hit me. I’m expending all the effort, in that scenario, and for what? I’m tired —” she pauses. He can see her fingers tapping, where they rest against her ankle. “God, I’m tired. I'm tired of settling for bullshit. Life's too short, you know?”

 

She glances up. Her face is steel, but her eyes — Frank feels something cinch tight in his chest, like the breath’s been knocked from his lungs. The last time she looked at him like this —

 

He didn’t deserve it then. He still doesn’t.

 

“ ‘M sorry, Karen,” he says before he can change his mind. “Showin’ up like this, when you’re dealin’ with all that —”

 

The box of .380 rounds feels heavy, in his hands. He sets them on the counter and backs away like they’ve burned him, and when he turns —

 

When he turns, Karen is right fuckin’ there, standing close enough he could touch her, if he wanted. He can see her breathing through her nose, cheeks slightly flushed. She looks like she wants to slap him, or something else, and he knows, he sure as shit _knows_ right then and there that he’s at her mercy, either way.

 

“You’re an idiot,” she says. “You know that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Frank croaks. “Yeah, that’s the goin’ consensus.”

 

Karen moves closer. “I meant it when I said I was done with the bullshit, Frank,” she says, soft and low. “I’m done running in circles. I’m done pretending not to want the things I do. I don’t know where the hell to go from here, but —” her lips twist. “You’re in my apartment, aren’t you? You didn’t have to come here. Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

“Yeah, well —” _Christ_ , his face is warm. He's never been more glad he kept the beard. “Mostly came for the free beer.”

 

“Asshole,” Karen says, but she’s smiling, and he’s smiling, too.

 

“Guess some things don’t change.”

 

“And some things do.” She’s looking at him with those blue, blue eyes, and he’s looking back. He’s looking back, and it feels like he’s swallowed concrete. It feels like falling. Frank Castle is looking at Karen Page, and it hurts —

 

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _Oh._

 

.

 

.

 

“Read anything good in the paper, lately?” Curt asks a week later. They’re at the diner again, this time grabbing an early dinner before group.

 

Frank shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable, man.”

 

“Hey, I’m just makin’ small talk, here,” Curt says, not even trying to hide his shit-eating grin.

 

“Maybe you talk too much, yeah, Curt? Anyone ever told you that?”

 

“It’s come up, yeah.”

 

Frank takes a bite of his burger, happy to drop it there, but Curt — God love him, Curtis leans forward and actually _waggles_ his fuckin’ eyebrows.

 

“Cut that shit out,” Frank growls.

 

“You took my advice,” Curt replies, proceeding to _not_ cut that shit out.

 

“Christ's sake, Curt —” Frank shifts in his seat, scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re a certified pain in my ass, y’know that?”

 

Curt pulls a satisfied face. “So when do you see her again?”

 

“What,” Frank huffs, “you that eager to get rid of me?”

 

“Yeah, man,” Curtis says, scrunching his nose, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I just — don’t like you that much.”

 

Frank just laughs, a real laugh from deep in his gut. There’s something growing, something warm and buoyant-bright in his chest that feels good, like the fragments of his life are slotting together again. It’s not perfect, it’ll never be perfect, but — it’s enough. It’s something very close to happiness.

 

 _Work to do?_ his blood thrums, quiet like an afterthought.

 

Frank flexes his hands, feels the tendons stretch.

 

Maybe, he thinks, but not today.


End file.
